Checkmate, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Chapter 5.

A Catastrophe.

The play has commenced. Longcluse, who likes and understands the game, sitting beside Richard Arden,
is all eye. He is intensely eager and delighted. He joins modestly in the clapping that now and then follows a stroke
of extraordinary brilliancy. Now and then he whispers a criticism in Arden’s ear. There are many vicissitudes in the
game. The players have entered on the third hundred, and still “doubtful it stood.” The excitement is extraordinary.
The assembly is as hushed as if it were listening to a sermon, and, I am afraid, more attentive. Now, on a sudden, Hood
scores a hundred and sixty-eight points in a single break. A burst of prolonged applause follows, and, during the
clapping, in which he had at first joined, Longcluse says to Arden —

“I can’t tell you how that run of Hood’s delights me. I saw a poor little friend of mine here before the play began
— I had not seen him since I was little more than a boy — a Frenchman, a good-natured little soul, and I advised him to
back Hood, and I have been trembling up to this moment. But I think he’s safe now to win. Markham can’t score this
time. If he’s in ‘Queer Street,’ as they whisper round the room, you’ll find he’ll either give a simple miss, or put
himself into the pocket.”

“Well, I’m sure I hope your friend will win, because it will put three hundred and eighty pounds into my pocket,”
said Richard Arden.

And now silence was called, and the building became, in a moment, hushed as a cathedral before the anthem; and
Markham knocked his own ball into the pocket as Longcluse had predicted.

On sped the game, and at last Hood scored a thousand, and won the match, greeted by an uproar of applause that, now
being no longer restrained, lasted for nearly five minutes. The assemblage had, by this time, descended from the
benches, and crowded the floor in clusters, discussing the play or settling bets. The people in the gallery were
pouring down by the four staircases, and adding to the crowd and buzz.

Suddenly there is a sort of excitement perceptible of a new kind — a gathering and pressure of men about one of the
doors at the far corner of the room. Men are looking back and beckoning to their companions; others are shouldering
forward as strenuously as they can. What is it — any dispute about the score? — a pair of men boxing in the
passage?

“No suspicion of fire?” the men at this near end exclaim, and sniff over their shoulders, and look about them, and
move toward the point where the crowd is thickening, not knowing what to make of the matter. But soon there runs a
rumour about the room —“a man has just been found murdered in a room outside,” and the crowd now press forward more
energetically to the point of attraction.

In the cross-passage which connects the two corridors, as Mr. Longcluse described, there is an awful crush, and next
to no light. A single jet of gas burns in the smoking room, where the pressure of the crowd is not quite so much felt.
There are two policemen in that chamber, in the ordinary uniform of the force, and three detectives in plain clothes,
one supporting a corpse already stiffening, in a sitting posture, as it was found, in a far angle of the room, on the
bench to your left as you look in. All the people are looking up the room. You can see nothing but hats, and backs of
heads, and shoulders. There is a ceaseless buzz and clack of talk and conjecture. Even the policemen are looking, as
the rest do, at the body. The man who has mounted on the chair near the door, with the other beside him, who has one
foot on the rung and another on the seat, and an arm round the first gentleman’s neck, although he has not the honour
of his acquaintance, to support himself, can see, over the others’ heads, the one silent face which looks back towards
the door, upon so many gaping, and staring, and gabbling ones. The light is faint. It has occurred to no one to light
the gas lamps in the centre. But that forlorn face is distinct enough. Fixed and leaden it is, with the chin a little
raised. The eyes are wide open, with a deep and awful gaze; the mouth slightly distorted with what the doctors call “a
convulsive smile,” which shows the teeth a little, and has an odd, wincing look.

As I live, it is the little Frenchman, Pierre Lebas, who was talking so gaily to-night with Mr. Longcluse!

The ebony haft of a dagger, sticking straight out, shows where the hand of the assassin planted the last stab of
four, through his black satin waistcoat, embroidered with green leaves, red strawberries, and yellow flowers, which, I
suppose, was one of the finest articles in the little wardrobe that Madame Lebas packed up for his holiday. It is not
worth much now. It has four distinct cuts, as I have said, on the left side, right through it, and is soaked in
blood.

His pockets have been rifled. The police have found nothing in them but a red pocket-handkerchief and a papier-maché
snuff-box. If that dumb mouth could speak but fifty words, what a world of conjecture it would end, and poor Lebas’s
story would be listened to as never was story of his before!

A policeman now takes his place at the door to prevent further pressure. No new-comers will be admitted, except as
others go out. Those outside are asking questions of those within, and transmitting, over their shoulders, particulars,
eagerly repeated. On a sudden there is a subsidence of the buzz and gabble within, and one voice, speaking almost at
the pitch of a shriek, is heard declaiming. White as a sheet, Mr. Longcluse, in high excitement, is haranguing in the
smoking-room, mounted on a table.

“I say,” he cried, “gentlemen, excuse me. There are so many together here, so many known to be wealthy, it is an
opportunity for a word. Things are coming to a pretty pass — garotters in our streets and assassins in our houses of
entertainment! Here is a poor little fellow — look at him — here to-night to see the game, perfectly well and happy,
murdered by some miscreant for the sake of the money he had about him. It might have been the fate of anyone of us. I
spoke to him to-night. I had not seen him since I was a boy almost. Seven children and a wife, he told me, dependent on
him. I say there are two things wanted — first, a reward of such magnitude as will induce exertion. I promise, for my
own share, to put down double the amount promised by the highest subscriber. Secondly, something should be done for the
family he has left, in proportion to the loss they have sustained. Upon this point I shall make inquiry myself. But
this is plain, the danger and scandal have attained a pitch at which none of us who cares to walk the streets at night,
or at any time to look in upon amusements like that we attended this evening, can permit them longer to stand. There is
a fatal defect somewhere. Are our police awake and active? Very possibly; but if so the force is not adequate. I say
this frightful scandal must be abated if, as citizens of London, we desire to maintain our reputation for common sense
and energy.”

There was a tall thin fellow, shabbily dressed, standing nearly behind the door, with a long neck, and a flat mean
face, slightly pitted with small-pox, rather pallid, who was smiling lazily, with half-closed eyes, as Mr. Longcluse
declaimed; and when he alluded pointedly to the inadequacy of the police, this man’s amusement improved, and he winked
pleasantly at the clock which he was consulting at the moment with the corner of his eye.

And now a doctor arrived, and Gabriel Laroque the watchmaker, and more police, with an inspector. Laroque faints
when he sees his murdered friend. Recovered after a time, he identifies the body, identifies the dagger also as the
property of poor Lebas.

The police take the matter now quite into their hands, and clear the room.